Just Head Out For The Horizon
by catchingthegirlonfire
Summary: Rose gazes up to the Statue of Liberty as the Carpathia docks in New York, but what happens to her next? Will she keep her promise to Jack? Or will she run back to first class?
1. Chapter 1

This story takes place as Rose is getting off the Carpathia in New York, what happened to her post Titanic.

Chapter One

Finally reaching New York, I look up at the great statue of liberty. The rain beats down on my face, but I don't look away, this is a sight I want to remember. I put my hand in my pocket, instinctively, after feeling a bulge inside of it. The heart of the ocean lays cupped in my hand, a parting gift from my old life. It'll serve not as a memory of Cal, who purchased for me, but of my lost lover, Jack Dawson. Jack will not only live in my heart, but inside the diamond, which I wore as he sketched me in the nude. My mind flashes images of that night. Flying, drawing, the car. Though it was only a few nights ago, it seems a million years have passed between that night and now. "Can I take your name please, love?" A seaman asks me.

I hadn't realized he's standing next to me. He shields me from the rain with him umbrella. I look up to him, "Dawson," I say, "Rose Dawson."

He scribbles my name onto the sheet and we begin exiting the boat. I promised Jack that I'd never let go, and I don't intend to.

The rain falls down on me hard, as I stare off into the distance, hoping some how, some way, this had all been a terrible dream. I exit the Carpathia with the third class, utterly terrified that Cal or Mother will catch a glimpse of me. I made my decision before the ship sank- that life was not for me. Fancy clothes, parties, caviar, I hate it all. I would've thrown myself off of the back of that ship, probably should've too, it might have saved Jack in the end. But I can't dwell on that now, I'm strong, just like Jack said. I owe it to him to brave this world alone.

I step onto American soil once again, greeted by a million reporters, photographers and miscellaneous families; hoping to find their loved ones. Many heads are hung low, but many more are held high. "What lifeboat were you saved on?" a young female reporter asks, eager for a story.

"I was pulled from the water," I say.

"The water?" the reporter says in disbelief, "How many went back?"

"One," I say, "Just one."

I step away from her, trying to make my way out of the crowd, not wanting to answer any more questions. It's sickening how they exploit everyone's loss. They should leave us alone. I don't intend on giving a statement, so don't try and force me to.

As I walk down the busy streets of New York City, I turn the diamond in my hand, still inside the pocket. Should I sell it? No. I don't want any of Cal's money. It feels inherently wrong to do something like that. Besides, gaining that amount of money would put me on the map. He'd find me, I know he would.

After walking a few more miles in the rain, I happen upon a small diner. This is obviously not a great part of town, but who I am to judge these people. We are one in the same. At least these people have a purpose, have a life. I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere. I feel like I'm back, laying on the door, floundering, dying in the ocean, helpless. Someone had been there to rescue me that time, I'm not so lucky now. I step inside and approach the counter, "Are you hiring?" I ask the man.

"Waitresses?" he asks, swirling his rag on the countertop, cleaning it.

"Well," he says, "You any good?"

"I've never waitressed before," I say, "But I suppose I could be."

"You suppose so, huh?" he says, studying me.

"Okay," he finally says, "We'll try you out..."

He trails off looking for my name, "Rose," I say, "Rose Dew- Dawson," I catch myself.

"Alright," he says, "You can start this afternoon."

I nod, as he takes me into the back room to help me get situated. "You'll have to be trained," he says.

I learn the ropes for the next few hours before they put me on to waitress by myself. It looks like incredibly hard work. So much memory is involved, I don't know how they'll do it. Lucky enough I took ballet as a child, I'm going to have to use it in the balancing act the call _serving_. "Where you from?" another waitress named Emma asks.

"Philadelphia," I say, instinctively.

"Never been," she says, "It's nice."

"Hardly," I say, "I assure you."

"What brings you to New York then?" she asks, "Looking for work?"

"Yes," I say, "I guess you could say that."

I make the decision to hide my past, especially the Titanic part of it, from all whom I meet for the time being. I need to learn how to live like a real person. Though I'm limited by money, I feel freer than ever. My bonds have been severed, and I don't owe anybody a single thing. Except maybe to Jack, for setting me free. It'll take me a few months, taking into account rent for an apartment, but I'll make my way out of New York, to California perhaps. Maybe visit Jack's pier, feel what he felt. California, wow. I did say I always wanted to be a motion picture actress.

"Where are you staying?" Emma asks, as we finish up our shift.

"I don't know," I say, "I didn't really think about that."

It's true, I am completely ill prepared. I don't know if I'm just naive, or if the sinking set me back a couple of steps. Either way, I've got to pull myself together and start weighing my options. "Rent's expensive here," she says.

She pauses a few seconds, "I have an apartment close by if you'd like to stay with me for the night. If you have nowhere else to go."

"Really?" I ask.

"Sure," she says, "It'll give us more time to get to know each other."

Already, the lower class is beginning to prove itself. Later that evening, after our shift, she takes me up a few blocks, towards her apartment. She walks fast and looks down. I pass several people on the street, begging for scraps of food. I swallow hard and look away. My only regret about all this, is that I hope I don't starve. I would too, I'm too proud to crawl back to Cal, I never will. I'd rather be homeless, dying on the street than let him own me again.

I hold my head up high. The deeper we get into the city, the more it reeks. It's clear that people are less than cleanly here. We approach a four story building that looks decent, run down, but decent at least. "Third floor," Emma says, as we enter the building. A man tips his hat to Emma by the staircase. He nods to me, but I'm not sure what the protocol is for that sort of thing. I tip my head in the same manner, and begin to climb the stairs.

We finally reach her floor, and stop by a brown, tall door, marked _304_. She brandishes a key and turns it in the lock. She pushes the door open. She has a small studio, one room apartment, but an apartment nonetheless. It's more than I can say of myself. She has a small bed, a desk with a broken leg, held up by a book, a stove, and a couch. A dingy curtain hangs over her window. "I can take your coat," she says suddenly.

"I'll hang onto it," I say, not wanting her to find the diamond, or see my grand dress underneath.

I wonder what I'll do about that. If I really want to blend in, I can't wear this dreadful ruined thing. We passed a shop a block ago that looks like it'll have adequate clothes. In the mean time, I'll have to ask to borrow something of hers. That's assuming she has one to spare. You never know.

"You're in luck," she says, "I saved up enough to buy a proper supper tonight. I was thinking of getting a chicken. With all the fixings!"

"Great!" I say, trying to muster up some feeling to respond to her excitement.

I am not going to say I'm overjoyed for chicken. It's not like it's anything important anyway. The food would be hard to get used to at first. "There's a market down the street, I'll have to go pick one up."

"I'll go with you," I say, wanting to look for a new dress.

As we walk down to the market, I check Cal's coat pockets again. A few coins rattle around in the pocket of one of them. I draw my hand out, holding four quarters and a dime. That would hardly suffice for one of the dress I wore on Titanic. I drift back to that little shop as Emma searches for supper. I walk in, the bell sounds and the clerk comes around to the front. "Looking for something specific, dear?" she asks.

"A dress," I say, "An all-purpose dress."

She leads me towards something hearty, but not incredibly thick. This will definitely stand up to wear and tear. "How much?" I ask, holding it up to me.

"Two dollars," she says.

I hang my head and say, "Forget it then."

"How much do you have?" she asks.

"A dollar and ten cents," I say.

She looks at me, cocks her head to the side and says, "That'll do, child."

I look up into her eyes, not knowing what to say. It's clear the look is enough for her. She folds the dress up and I put it over my arm. Now I have an equalizer.

I hurry back to the market, hoping to catch Emma while she's still here. It takes me a few minutes, but I finally find her. "Did you find what you were looking for?" she asks.

I smile and unfurl my new dress. "How did you afford that?" she asks, touching it.

"The last of my money," I say, "I needed one badly."

She nods and says, "Well I found the chicken and the fixings. What do you say we head home?"

I nod and follow behind her the whole way again. I'm surely not used to all the people around. Not to mention the manner in which they act around me. Emma sets the chicken to cook and sits on the couch beside me. "So what's your story?" I ask.

"Ah, not much of one," she says, "Born and raised here, New York. My father died a few years ago, I'm just trying to keep myself afloat here."

"I'm sorry," I say.

She nods and continues, "It was real hard at first, I'm not gonna lie, but I've been working at the diner a few years now. It's not so bad."

"How do you afford this place on your own?" I ask.

"I never said it was impossible but it sure isn't easy. I work a lot mostly. Hugo's not a bad boss."

I make a mental note to remember his name. He told me himself earlier today, but with so many things to remember, I've forgotten. "I'm excited to start work on my own tomorrow. And start looking for a place of my own," I say.

"I'm hoping to catch a train to the west," I add, smiling, "I want to start new in California."

"Wow!" she exclaims, "You do have big dreams, I'll give you that."

"I made a promise to someone special I'd go there. Seems to me like a good place to start. I'm looking forward to the warmth," I say.

She laughs and says, "That'd sure be nice. It gets cold around here."

"That's why I want to get a place quickly," I say.

She opens her mouth, pauses and changes her mind, "You need a steady income for that."

"True," I say, "Hugo pays weekly."

"What'll you do until then?" she asks, a worry-line forming in her forehead.

I shake my head, not really knowing where I'm going to end up.

"You can stay here a while with me if you want," she says, "Until you leave even."

"I'll pay rent," I say, "If I stay here, I'm not going to be a freeloader."

"You wouldn't be," she says smiling, "I'm glad to have a friend, it's much too quiet around here."

"Tell me more about you," she says.

"What's your story?" she asks, "I mean, I know your from Philadelphia, but that's it."

"Have you ever had to run away from something?" I ask, "Because your world was suffocating you?"

"Never had that luxury," she says, "to just get up and leave."

In that moment I realize, maybe the world is all about money. If I don't acquire the means to follow my dreams, I never will. I feel as though I was an animal, in a cage, set free, but thrown back into a slightly bigger one. I'm still trapped. Things are going to change in my life, really soon, and I hardly am prepared for what they're about to be.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

So many things have changed since the day I arrived on that dock, my whole world sunk around me into nothing. Ironically, so did Titanic. It's been two years to the night of the sinking and I can hardly believe it. I finger the train ticket in my hand and lean back against my pillow. I can't stop looking at it, I can't contain myself. I tuck it back underneath my pillow, afraid I'll misplace it or lose it. I roll over and glance at Emma. She sits atop her bed, reading a newspaper, but clearly watching me more than reading.

"You're really leaving me, huh?" Emma says, smiling, but with sad eyes.

She flips to the next page of the newspaper and looks down. I can tell she's not really reading. I sit up in the bed to face her, "You could come with me," I say, "I know you could!"

"What's in California for me?" she says, flatly.

"I can't answer that," I say, pausing to consider my own plans, "Only that it'll be an adventure."

"Have you ever had dreams?" I ask.

"Well, sure," she starts, "I always wanted to be a dancer."

"Why didn't you try?" I ask.

"As a dancer," she says in a patronizing tone, "You need a lot of training."

She pauses a second and adds, "Training costs money."

"You could've saved up," I say, "Like I did."

"I couldn't have ever been a dancer, Rose," she says, sighing, "I wasn't raised like _you_ were, to follow my dreams."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask.

"Look, Rose, I know where you come from," she says, "I know you come from money."

My heart sinks, I thought I've kept that well away, hidden, so nobody knew. "That doesn't mean I could follow my dreams," I say quietly.

"Money can get you anything," she says, "I'm sure of it."

"Happiness, comfort, food," she says, adding, "_Love_."

"Money has nothing to do with love," I say, "I can assure you that."

"You wouldn't marry for money?" she asks.

"No," I say, wrinkling my nose, thinking of Cal, adding, "I most definitely would not."

"Would you marry at all?" she asks, not trying to further press my buttons, but to make conversation.

"I would," I say, knowing I would've positively married Jack sometime after docking in New York.

It's strange to think of what could've been. We could've moved back to his home state of Wisconsin. We could've raised our children there, built a little house up on Lake Wissota. Our children would have most definitely gone ice-fishing. Even the girls.

The rest of that night I daydream about a life I'll never have. I lay in my bed, trying to fall asleep, clutching desperately to my train ticket to the one place I need to get to, Santa Monica.

The next day, I awoke early to board my train. Emma came along to say goodbye to me. She helped me carry my bags, though I only had two and one was small. Things have definitely been sparse in my new life. I have nothing I can't absolutely live without. Well, except maybe Emma. I close my eyes, not wanting to say goodbye.

"That's it then," Emma says, resting a hand on my shoulder.

"I guess it is," I say, smiling at her.

"You'll be okay, won't you?" she says, worry-lines forming in the center of her forehead.

"I'm a survivor," I say, "And so are you."

"Write to me, okay?" she says, eyes beginning to glisten.

"Of course," I say, "The first chance I get."

"Promise you won't forget me," she says.

"I couldn't," I say, "I owe almost all of my recent good fortunes to you."

We step forward and embrace each other. The train whistle blows, it's time for me to board. As I step up into the car, I can't help but have a flashback to two years before, walking the gangplank up to Titanic. Then I had been chained, imprisoned, a butterfly with cut wings. Now, I'm a free woman, heading out for the horizon, flying true and free, just like my love would've wanted.

A long while later, days later in fact, I arrived at my first major stop, Denver, Colorado. At the Denver Union Station, I wait for my next train. I glance around the station, admiring its beauty. I heard it was newly renovated. I momentarily enjoy my trip back around first class architecture. But the fresh paint only reminded me more of the Titanic, and those who I left behind.

Though I wanted to many times, I never searched for Cal or Mother. It would've been easy enough for me to go spy on them at first, given the Titanic investigations. I read a long while ago that Cal had gotten subpoenaed. I never saw anything of my mother though. I wouldn't, of course, she's too proud to let those people see she has no money left. I can't help but wonder if she really is a seamstress now. I can only assume she's not living in New York. Nobody had heard of her in Emma's section of the city. She's either moved along elsewhere or is a servant. I hardly can imagine her treating a servant well, never-mind actually being a servant. Maybe her strong will can help her make her way. Then again, it'll probably cause her downfall.

As I board my next train I vow to think happy thoughts, mostly of what I'll do in the future. I reach into my small bag and pull out a brand new brown leather-bound sketchbook. I run my fingers across it, which causes me to shudder. It's so alike _his_.

I plan to go to Jack's pier in Santa Monica, do some portraits there. Though I don't have skill like his, I've become very good at cubist drawings if I do say so myself. I always practiced back at the diner, with my pencil, on the back of the receipts. Nobody ever noticed. Maybe I'd make enough money to live fairly, it's worth a try. Maybe someone will appreciate my work there.

Going to California gives me even broader horizons than New York. I could be a waitress again, not that I'd really want to. At least I have experience at it now. Most importantly of all, I could be a motion picture actress. I've always wanted to be in films, maybe direct them. The men wouldn't let me direct or produce, I'm sure. But I could convince them. With official women's rights or not, they'd hear my voice. Or they'd regret it.

My first year in New York I took part in the hike to Albany, a women's suffrage hike. I walked 170 miles all in the name of equality. I was even in the paper, much to my dismay. My face was distant, but I could tell it was me. I just hope that Cal or Mother wasn't reading closely that day. Cal would've been at least, but then, he did have a nasty habit of being non-observant. I read his marriage announcement in the _Times _last week. It's a shame I picked that day to get one. Even seeing his name sends knives of pain and nerves into my stomach. I clutch the arm on my seat at the thought. I look around, embarrassed, but my car is empty. I sigh heavily and throw my head back. Soon I'll be in California, a wealth of opportunities, just a few miles away.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

I hear the brakes come to a screeching halt, and the passengers on the train begin to exit all of the cars soon enough. I scramble to gather my bags, not wanting to miss a second of the sunshine. It's become far too dreary on these trains, metal on metal sounds, always that subtle feeling of grind and grime. It will be nice to breath some fresh air again.

I exit the train and look up at the sun through the large glass window. It's so bright, much brighter than New York, shielded by buildings, reflective, yet I wouldn't call them bright. They cast shadows of metal and despair. I've grown accustomed to the city, having lived in New York for a year, though. It'll take some getting used to, seeing the open space again. There's no trees, and I have my doubts if there'll be snow. I never did like it much anyway, so it's just as well.

I make my way to the end of the room, to a man at a small information desk. "Can I help you?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, placing my suitcase on the ground and wiping the sweat off my brow, "Do you know how to get to the Santa Monica pier?"

"Sure," he says pausing to to grab a map off of the counter, "You'll need one of these."

He waves the map at me and I ask, "How much?"

"For you, sweetheart," he says, "I'll let this one slide."

I smile and he unfurls it. "Now," he says, "You're gonna wanna take the trolly down to this stop here."

He points to spot on the map, just under the words, _Santa Monica. _"Where do I go then?"

"Just stop and look around," he says, "The pier will be right in front of your eyes."

I smile again and say, "Thank you."

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" he asks.

"I suppose not," I say, eager to find the trolly and make it to the pier.

"What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," I say, quickly adding, "Rose."

"Nice to meet you Miss Rose," he says, "I'm Jack."

My heart pangs at the name. "Nice to meet you too...J-Jack."

I stumble just saying his name. I turn away from him, close my eyes tight, forcing my eyes not to tear. I pick up my bags and leave without looking back at him.

A few hours later the trolly picks me up and brings me to Santa Monica. I can hardly contain my excitement. I've never seen the Pacific ocean before. And what a wonder- the palm trees! I've never seen anything of the sort. I step off the trolly with my bag in tow, and spin around to face the pier. Jack's roller-coaster jets up into the sky, spinning the people up and down and all around. There are people everywhere you look.

I spy an empty bench and sit for a moment. My heart is beating fast and hard, I'm having sensory overload. I don't know how I'm going to pick what I do first. Perhaps I'll just sit a while and take it all in.

After a few moments I begin to get restless and pluck out my sketchbook. I look down the pier and begin to draw Jack's roller-coaster. "Hey," someone says behind me after a few moments, "You're really good."

I whip my head around to find the source of the voice. A young man stands behind me, with blonde hair, emerald eyes, and two rows of pearly white teeth. Though he's dress casually, I get the impression that this man and I differ somewhat in our financial situations. Though he doesn't appear wealthy, he doesn't look like the people I've come to know in New York. I disregard my judgement of him and say, "Thank you," I add, "I've only just started drawing."

"Wouldn't have guessed that," he says, coming around the bench and plunking down next to me.

I shift my body slightly away from him. He doesn't seem to care. "I've never seen you here before," he says.

"I've only just arrived," I say, gesturing to my bags.

"Where are you staying?" he asks.

"I don't know yet," I say, "Maybe I'll sleep on the beach. Or live in a garret."

"The beach is no place for a woman to sleep," he says.

"How would you know?" I ask, disgruntled, "I will do what I please."

He laughs and says, "Fine," he pauses, "But don't expect me to save you from the drunks and bums then."

"I have nowhere else to go, though," I say, impatient, "Like I told you, I've only been here a little while."

I add, "I don't know anyone."

"You could stay with me," he says.

"I don't know you," I say.

"You don't have to know me to stay with me," he says.

"What's your name then?" I ask.

"John," he says simply.

"John what," I demand.

He laughs and says, "Calvert."

He adds, "You haven't told me yours, you know."

"Rose," I say, "Rose Dawson."

"Nice to meet you," he picks up my right hand and kisses the top of it.

I flashback to when Jack came to dinner that night. I wonder if John knew him, if they were friends. I wouldn't bring it up, of course. An overwhelming sense of comfort and trust runs through me, urging me to go with John. I wonder somehow if it's Jack, telling me it's okay. After all, my other option does not sound too comfortable. Alike Jack, John doesn't want to see me hurt. I like that.

"So where you from?" he asks, trying to make polite conversation."

"Pennsylvania." I say, "But I've been living in New York the past year."

I add, "And you?"

"Born and raised right here in California. My dad was a gold miner."

"He's a gold miner?" I ask, "What about you?"

"Was a gold miner," he says, "He died in a mine collapse a few years ago. My mother was devastated."

"I'm sorry," I say, "I know what it's like to loose a father."

"And a mother," I add.

He looks back up at me and purses his lips together, he tries to force a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Me too," he says.

"I took on a few different jobs when he died. I worked mainly at a shipyard," he says, pausing, "I quit that when my mom passed."

"So now I work up in Hollywood," he says, throwing his arms back behind his head, pushing out his chest.

"Doing what?" I ask.

"I'm an assistant to a director up there," he says, "Meaningless tasks, getting lunches, cleaning up, things like that. But I don't mind. It's a great opportunity."

"It's always been a dream of mine to be an actress."

"You could be," he says, "You're beautiful."

"Thank you," I say, smiling.

He smiles a smile that reaches his eyes. I look down and say, "That's half the reason I came out here."

"What's the other reason?" he asks.

"To find an absolution," I say, sighing.

"For what?" he asks, cocking his head to the side.

I look out to the distance, at the ocean and say, "Forget it," adding, "All that matters is that I'm here."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

It's June 10th, 1914. I must say, the last few months have been a whirlwind. John swept me off my feet, not that I'd want him to, of course, but still, something inside me has some feelings for him. Since the day on the pier I've moved in with him permanently. He doesn't make me pay rent, though I've taken a liking to working, so I've snagged a few jobs as an extra on a movie set. I never thought that little old me would be in the movies, even if I do fade into the background.

After a long day, running about Los Angeles, working and assisting the directors I practically fall into the couch. I put my feet up. John laughs. "Comfortable?"

"Quite," I say, smiling, "My feet are tired."

"That's a shame," he says flatly.

"Why?" I ask, lowering my feet back to the ground.

"I wanted to take you down to the pier, maybe have a little fun."

It's a shame that I haven't done everything at the pier yet. I rode the roller-coaster a few times, but that's about it. The days are beginning to blend together, but still, I want to keep my promise to Jack. If he can't be here, why waste this opportunity with John. "We can still go," I say.

"Not if you're _that _tired," he says.

"I'm not _that _tired," I say, mocking him, "I'll be fine."

"If you're sure," he says, skeptical.

A few hours later, John walked me down to the pier. All the while we chatted about our days. I like to catch glimpses of him as I talk, he's a very captive audience, and impeccable listener. "I needed this, John," I say, "I need to get back to myself."

I add, "Do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," he says, "Lots have changed these last few months."

Though we are not romantically involved with each other, I'd have to imagine going from a bachelor to living with a woman is hard. It's been hard enough for me. It was easy living with Emma, but with John, I always have to be extra careful about things. That's not to say I don't like his company. In some ways, he's better to live with than Emma was. Though initially I was only going to stay at his place for the short-term, everything seems to be falling into place. He's like the missing piece to my puzzle.

"I'm sorry," I say, not knowing what else to offer.

"No," he says, "Don't be."

He adds, "These last few months have been the best."

"I didn't think they would be," I say.

"Oh I knew, Rosie," he says.

"Don't call me Rosie!" I say, irritated.

He laughs and says, "Why?"

I stop to think about it, "Well...I don't know," I say, "I guess it's okay."

"Well I like it," he says, "Rosie."

I roll my eyes and say, "So what are we doing here anyway?"

"I thought that was up to me," he says, pausing to smile, "And for you to find out."

"Damn you," I say, as we take our first step onto the pier.

We walk down the pier a long while, bypassing everything I was sure he'd take me to. The roller coaster, ferris wheel, or even just to get something to eat. "Why are we going down off the pier?" I ask John as he leads me down the steps.

"To try something new," he says, as he leads me onward on the beach.

We finally make it down the steps and onto the sand. "Take off your shoes," he says.

"What?" I ask

"Take them off!" he says, "Feel the sand."

Despite the fact I think he's mad I sleep off my shoes and hand them to him. "If you're going to make me do this, then you're carrying them."

He laughs and says, "Fair enough."

I squish my toes in the sand, it's warm, but not hot, unlike anything I've ever felt before. I run out ahead of him and spin and jump in the sand. I hear him run towards me, he has shoes off as well and has cast them into the sand behind him. "You'll never catch me!" I yell and break out into a run.

I laugh as it takes no time at all for him to catch up. He grabs me and I try to squirm away, all the while laughing hysterically. His hands tighten around my waist as he suddenly draws me closer to him. I look up and say, "John?"

"Rose," he says, not even calling me 'Rosie', which makes me wonder what he's doing.

"I have to tell you," he says, pausing, "I brought you out here tonight for a reason."

He continues, "I'm mad about you."

"I know," I say.

"You do?" he says, surprised.

"Not necessarily," I say, "I only knew I felt the same way."

"Feel or felt?" he asks.

"As if it makes a difference," I say.

"It does to me," he says.

"Feel," I say, laughing.

"Feel," he repeats.

Before he can say another word, I plant my lips on his and kiss him. "Right then," he says, "You don't know how long I've waited for this."

"Six months," I say.

He laughs and lets me go. He quickly grabs my hand. Behind us suddenly we hear a whinny and clomping. We turn to see two men on horseback. "Hello," they say, "Thirty cents a ride. Right along the water."

My heart pangs and I release his hand. _Jack_. Oh god. Jack. John says, "Sure."

"John," I say, "No!"

"Afraid of horses?" he says.

"No!" I say, "I just..." I trail off.

"Then you've got nothing to worry about!" he says, "Here, put your shoes back on."

I put on my shoes while he goes back for his. He hand the men 60 cents and walks back to me. "We have them for an hour."

"I don't know how to ride," I say, lying.

I do know how to ride, I just don't know how to ride like a man. "Don't worry, Rosie," he says, "I'll help you."

"Alright," I say, begrudgingly.

He helps me up onto one of the horses. I put my foot in the stirrup and throw my leg over the other side. My dress seams scream a bit but they don't burst. I hike up my skirt. He laughs and says, "Women really should wear pants. They'd be able to do a lot more."

"You're right," I say, "But it's the stubborn men that won't have that."

"I wouldn't say that," he says, "I want women to be equal to us."

"We still can't vote," I say.

"I'll vote for you," he says, "Whoever you want."

"That's completely absurd," I say, laughing.

"Excuse me!" a portly man says on the beach a few feet away from us.

"May I take your picture?" he asks, "I work for a movie production team."

"S-sure," I say, nervous, smiling.

I smile and he snaps the picture. "Can I have your name?" he asks, pulling out a piece of paper.

"Rose Dawson," I say confidently.

I give him my information and he says, "We'll be in touch."

The man leaves and John gets on his horse. For the next hour he takes me up and down the beach, slow at first, and then we run through the surf. I felt so free, like I was flying. I haven't felt that way in years, since I was standing on the bow of Titanic, arms spread wide. I quite like that John and Jack are connected in some way. He reminds me so much of him in many ways. I'm beginning to love him. Part of me wants to push him away, but part of me wants to never let him go. I know Jack wants me to move on. He wouldn't want me to suffer forever. Still, in my heart, he will go on, live forever. He lives in a part of my heart that not even a perfect man could replace. He's my Jack, I'm his Rose, but now I have a John and I'm his Rosie. Things are different. Very very different.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

So many things have happened to me in the last four years since I rode on the beach with John. My picture arrived in the mail a month later, with a letter of course. It turns out that that man really was on a production team, and he had an offer for me. Hugo Rawling was a top Hollywood producer of the day, eager to find fresh faces for his movies. The first role I was offered was a bit part, but a part none the less. The movie was released May 3rd, 1916. I spent my days after that playing other small roles, sometimes even uncredited. I didn't care, it only mattered that I was there. After appearing in that film, I was approached by Hugo to come back for another role in 1920, a bigger one. I was offered the part of Harriet Smith in a production of Jane Austen's book, _Emma. _I was elated.

A few months after shooting had been finished, I was invited to appear at the premiere in Hollywood. I brought John with me of course, as my date. I wore a white silken gown, adorned with heavy beading and an open back. Hugo's costume department even loaned John a suit so we would match. Though since I've risen to small-time fame, money is still tight. John won a job, after heavy pandering by me, under Hugo's wing, as an apprentice and intern only. But it was still paid.

I look down at my feet as I exit the car, hand in John's hand, shying away from the ever-watchful cameras. Every time I appear in a new role, I hope and say a silent prayer that Cal nor Mother ever sees it. I doubt they'd recognize my face anymore. They've never really seen me smile anyhow.

I hold my head up high, upon sanding, ready to walk the red carpet with the man I love. If they ever did see the photos, they would know. They would know how happy I am, and how they mean nothing to me anymore. Still, some small sliver of my heart pangs with remorse. I don't know why; but it makes me sad.

As the other actors and actresses arrive I am thrown more and more out of the lime-light. The photographers now only shout their names, eager to get a good shot of the stars for the morning paper. I shake my head and laugh, smiling up to John. "You look beautiful, dear," he says, sincerely.

"You look very handsome in that suit," I say, "It's a shame it's a loaner."

"You'll see me in one again soon," he says.

"What?" I say, confused.

"Nothing," he says, smiling.

After the screening of the movie, they brought us out into the front of the theater and we all took a bow. Though there are hundreds of faces in the crowd, I only have eyes for John.

Reuinted with John, after the screening, we steal a moment with each other, outside of the theater. "I know it's been a long time..." John says, trailing off..."But I've been meaning to do it for a long time."

"John...what.." I start, but he doesn't let me finish.

"I know you've been busy, and I have been too, but I don't want to wait any longer," John says.

John then bends down on one knee. I hear gasps all around and exclamations of glee. "Rose Dawson, would you do me the incredible honor of marrying me?"

I cover my mouth with my hands as he brandished a ring box. "Of course!" I exclaim.

Claps are heard all around as he picks me up and kisses me. He spins me around and says, "I knew you'd say yes."

"As if I could say no," I say.

But I could have. I could have convinced myself that I couldn't marry, that it wasn't right after Jack. That's not what Jack would have wanted. He wanted me to go on, get married, have children. He even told me so that fateful night. Ever passing day the images of his face get a little fuzzier in my mind, but my memories never fade away. He's safe in a part of my heart, and that's where I'll keep him. John now owns the other half. There's no competition between Jack and John, there can't be. There's room for the two of them.

A few weeks later I decide to start planning the Wedding. "What do you think about next year?" I ask, John, flipping through the available dates of our local church and reception rooms.

"I'd like to do it sometime in the spring or summer," I add.

"That's fine with me," he says, "You decide, it's your wedding."

I decided on June 14th, 1921. My bridesmaids and wedding guests were to be few in numbers, but that's not important. John's friends would be invited, including my best friend, Mildred, who will be my maid of honor. In total we will invite 50 people, including Hugo, without whom we could not afford the wedding.

I often think about selling the necklace Cal gave me, but it just feels wrong. During the sinking, the engagement ring he had given me was lost. Thank god. It was entirely too big and showy. That's just not me. My new ring, John's ring, sits on my finger, a simple but prominent diamond, with three small diamonds on either side. John saved for years to buy it for me. I would have been happy with just the proposal. It was gorgeous. And it is the best gift I've ever received.

Later that year John got a promotion, he became Hugo's right hand man, working on all sorts of movies. Of course, the new job meant more money, which we put in our bank account, not only saving for the wedding, but for a home. A proper home.

I looked through the papers for weeks before I found one. Cedar Rapids sounds wonderful to me. It's close to Hollywood, but far enough away for us to relax and stay out of it all. It has a great school, and a suitable, safe neighborhood. We made an offer on a mid-size house by April. The realtor assured us it would be ready for us by our Wedding. Our wedding is fast approaching now, and there's so much still to do.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"It's definitely something blue," I mutter to myself, as I hold the Heart of the Ocean necklace in my hands, "And old."

I figure that it's okay to wear it even though Cal gave me the necklace, it reminds me more of Jack than anything. The weightiness of the thing reminds me of the night he had drawn me, and how dreadfully heavy it seemed to me. Of course, in those days, my hands held little things else than fine jewels and the hand of my betrothed. My hands are much stronger now. I'm in the garden mostly everyday, along with the new kitchen. Though not today, of course, because today's my wedding day.

I sit in our old apartment, the last time I'll surely ever be in it. Though we've already moved most of our things over to our new house in Cedar Rapids, this will always be my first real home. I sit and read _Alice's Adventures In Wonderland, _for a while, hoping for some magic and whimsy in my own life. That is, before I fall down the rabbit hole to marriage. Though I don't feel like Alice, I'm not getting lost, I'm getting where I was always meant to be.

After a few minutes, a knock comes to my door, and it's time for my friends to help me get ready. I quickly tuck the necklace into a drawer, not wanting anyone to see it. Though I've been with John a long while now, I still haven't told him of the necklace, or Titanic for that matter. Those are two things I'd like to keep separate, at least for now.

Thinking of the Titanic makes me recall the dream I'd had last night. I dreamt I was on the ship again, I had many flashes of things Jack and I had done, including the drawing portrait. It all went so fast, I could barely keep up. Though I dreamt of Jack, I never saw his face, nor heard his voice, only felt the familiar touch of his hand. As the memories flashed before me, dream Jack intertwined between them. A voice told me to go on, his voice, which I remembered suddenly. He told me he was happy, and I should be too. He touched my face, leaned in, to kiss me, and I woke up. John was at our new house, thankfully, for I'm not sure what I would have done. Or said for that matter.

I want to tell someone about Jack so bad, especially on this day, but I keep it to myself. Mildred begins to do my hair, "Honestly Rose, you should consider cuttin' it," she says, "The bob's all the rage right now."

"With all due respect, Millie, I'd rather not," I say.

Though I love Mildred dearly, she's always trying to change me, or amend me, to go along with the latest trends. I've never really cared about staying in fashion. Besides, I think it's better to go against the grain sometimes, than with it. You stand out more, and who would want to blend in all the time?

Millie puts my hair up, into an intricately woven bun, pulling out curly tendrils here and there for a "romantic effect" as she would put it. "You look perfect, Rose."

"Now for the dress!" my friend Ida exclaims.

The girls help me into my dress soon after, eager to see the complete picture. My dress is white, with capped sleeves, a plunging v neckline, with a form-fitting cut. At the bottom, the dress flows out like a mermaid's tail, or a trumpet. That's what the woman at the store told me. Mermaid-y or trumpet-like, or something.

"Rose," Mildred starts, "You..."

I cut her off, waving my arms, "I know, I know."

I laugh and continue, "Just get your dresses on. I'm getting married in an hour, we don't have all day to gush."

"But!" Ida protests.

"You really do look beautiful, though," Millie says, cutting her off, "Put your jewelry on, we'll be right back."

I do what she says and put on my earrings, unable to decide which ones. I decide on the crystal drop earrings Hugo had given me for my birthday. No matter which way I turn, the sun hits them and they glimmer, sending tiny little rainbows across my skin. Now for a necklace. I reach into the drawer and hold the Heart of the Ocean up to my chest. It's far too overwhelming. Not to mention, nearly worth more than the city itself. I could say it's a piece of costume jewelry. I go back and forth for quite a while before I decide it's better that I don't wear it. Instead, I tuck the necklace into my brazier, right above my heart. It's right where it belongs.

A half an hour later, we arrived at the church. Though I sit in the back room, hidden from view, I am able to sneak a peek at the guests as they're arriving. With every passing person, it makes me more and more nervous.

The wedding bells chime, he's ready. I stand up, walk into the hall, with the help of my friends and prepare to make my walk down the aisle. "Who's walking you down?" Ida whispers.

"Me," I say.

"What?" They say, not believing me.

I hold my head up high, and gesture for them to line up. I don't need a man to walk me down the aisle. I am perfectly capable of doing it myself. The music starts.

The doors open, and I'm faced with sensory overload. I smell the flowers and see blurs of color, but only really focus on John. He holds his hands behind his back, fiddling with his jacket. I smile, thinking that in barely a few minutes, he'll be mine forever. As I come to his side and turn, the necklace shifts, but I pay no mind to it. It's John's time now.

"Dearly beloved," the minister starts, "We are gathered here today, under God, to witness the joining of John Calvert and Rose Dawson in holy matrimony. I welcome you all to witness their marriage and celebrate with us and share in the joy that they feel. They stand here, brought together by God, ready to pledge their love for one another."

I smile up at John and he winks at me slightly. He never was one for religious ceremonies. He reads a few passages from the Bible and says a few prayers. "John and Rose have written their own vows that they would like to read to one another at this time."

"John, if you will," the minister says, as he hands John the paper on which his vows are written."

This is the first time I'll be hearing them. "Rose," he starts, voice quavering, "I love you with all my heart. Ever since that day, when we met, on the pier, it changed my life forever. In the instant I met you, I knew that you were going to be the woman I'd marry."

He pauses, "In the years since then, I have come to know you as the wonderful, intelligent, strong woman you are. I look forward to each day we'll get to spend with one another, whether healthy or ill. I look forward to growing old with you and experiencing everything life has to offer us henceforth, together."

He throws his paper away from him and speaks directly to me, from the heart, "Rosie I love you, and I'll never stop, no matter what happens. I'll always be there. And that's a promise."

By the end of his vows I've teared up, and I'm not nearly ready to read my own. Nonetheless, I collect myself and read my own. "John Calvert," I pause, "I pledge myself to you, over all others. My life wouldn't be the same without you allowing me to explore my hopes and live my dreams. You've made me a better person, a better woman. And without you, I wouldn't have made it this far."

I pause and continue, "Ever since that first day at the beach, when you offered me a place to stay, I've always had love for you. You're the best thing that could've ever happened to me. I've had some hardship in my life, and I know you have too, but the most important thing now, is that we'll get through things together. Always together."

I speak from the heart as he had, "John, I love you. You're my best friend. When I'm with you, I feel free."

He takes my hand and squeezes it a second. The minister spits out more religious jargon and prayers that I don't have the attention span for any longer. Finally, he says, "May I have the rings please?"

Ida hands him the pillow, on which the rings lay. "The wedding ring is an outward symbol of your commitment, love and spiritual bond to one another. May these rings unite your hearts for endless love. It shall seal, in the presence of God, the commitment and promise they have made to one another."

"John, repeat after me."

"With this ring, I thee wed and with it I pledge to you all that I am, all that I have, and all that may come to me."

John repeats him, as do I to him. We place the rings on each others hands, both shaking. The minister says two marriage prayers, turns to us and says, "You have declared your commitment to one another in front God and his witnesses. It gives me the greatest pleasure to pronounce you husband and wife."

John grabs me and kisses me hard as our friends cheer. "You're supposed to wait until he tells you to kiss me," I scold.

"I couldn't wait any longer," he says, looking up at the minister.

We straighten up, "You may kiss your bride," the minister says, adding, "Again."

We kiss once more as the crowd laughs and cheers. "I introduce to you, for the first time as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. John Calvert!"

"Mr. and Mrs. John and _Rose _Calvert," I correct him, as John takes my hand and runs me down the aisle.

Our friends all cheer as we race out of the church, eager to steal a moment or two together. Later that night we dance our first dance to _Alexander's Ragtime Band. _I know it's considered old fashioned now, but I don't care. I feel like I'm floating on a cloud. It'd been a whirlwind of a day. All I can say is it's going to be one hell of a honeymoon.


	7. Chapter 7

The date is October the 29th, 1926, and it's a very very important date. I sit in my rocker, beside the hospital bed, holding my new baby. Her name is Margaret Coraline Calvert. We're planning on calling her Maggie. But also I chose the name _Coraline, _to resemble Cora, a girl who I came to adore on Titanic. I'm sure she's dancing in the clouds now, jumping for joy with Jack. I don't know what I would've done if it was a boy, John insisted we name him Jonathan Jr., and call him Jack for short. It would've been to painful to hear his name all the time.

The pregnancy was long and hard sometimes, but what I've received is more precious to me than all of the diamonds and jewels of the earth. "I love you," I whisper, rocking her to sleep, taking in her new baby glow.

She had been born this morning, after a rigorous eleven hour labor, she put up quite a fight. John opens the door and smiles, crouching down to get a good look at her again. "She's gorgeous," he whispers, adding, "She has your eyes. You're beautiful eyes"

He kisses me on the cheek. Though I just think he's trying to flatter me, I do see a slight resemblance to myself. I'm quite proud that it looks as though she has my thick red hair. John takes her out of my arms and puts her in the bassinet. "You should rest," he says.

"I'll rest later," I say, not wanting to miss a single second of looking at Maggie.

After several months, six months to be exact, Maggie's smiling and laughing all the time. She shines with light and love. Though I love her very much, raising a child isn't always fun and games. All night, every night, she wakes me up, I almost think she does it on purpose. Maybe she does. Nonetheless, I come when she cries, and I make it all better. In the past month she's started babbling, though it's nonsense, everyday she gets closer and closer to forming a word. She's also figured out how to grab things, and how fun my hair is to pull and shake. It goes without saying that I've been wearing my hair up a lot more lately. I still refuse to chop it off.

Today's the day of Maggie's christening, and I've prepared a gown for her to wear. I know I could've gone out and bought one, but it feels more special that I make it. My mother was worried, towards the end of our time together, that the loss of my father and our money would mean that she would have to give up everything and become a seamstress. Nonsense, she wouldn't last a day at a dress shop, but I would. I've always had steady hands, and I've taken a real liking to sewing. It's a shame I didn't figure this out ages ago.

Mldred has agreed to be her Godmother, and I wouldn't pick anyone else for the job, except of course maybe Ida. Either of them would do. It does often worry me that Maggie will be orphaned, I don't know why, but it does. Though since Titanic I've lead a relatively danger free life, anything could happen. I want to make sure she's safe, always.

At eight months she said "Mama" for the first time and I cried. I did, I really did, and I'm not ashamed to say it. I'm really happy that I was her first word, though anything else would have worked too. Secretly, I always wanted it to be me. The first should always be _Mama. _

By the time she was walking, I was preoccupied again, because I was pregnant with my second child, who was born on May 8th, 1928. This time, we got a boy. John and I were thrilled, but John especially was excited. He dreamed about having a little boy to take on set, or to teach baseball to. There's just something special about a father-son bond, that I'll never understand. Though initially he wanted to pass on his name, we amended it to Arthur Jonathan Calvert. Even though we were happy to receive such a wonderful gift, Arthur was a surprise, and for the first few years it was quite a struggle.

Arthur was my last child, sadly. Though John and I tried for one more, just one more, I had a miscarriage at eighteen weeks in June of 1932. Words cannot describe the emotional pain of losing a child. Still, I can find no words. The night I lost him I sat up in the hospital and thought about all of the mothers in the world who had lost their children. And all of the children whose lives were cut short. I'm not against abortion, nor will I ever be, every woman has the right to choose. I just wish life gave me the right to choose, this is _not_ what I would have picked. It's not fair. I thought of crying, but I couldn't muster the strength. They told me I was too old to carry another baby. My youth was slipping through my fingers. I fell into a deep dark depression. Maggie was six and Artie was four, and I was having an increasingly tougher time being selfish in my thoughts.

A year later, I fell out of that depression, and into the place I am now. I reached for art to get me out of it. I worked on drawings, paintings, and even pottery in the sun room of our house. I don't know why, but it makes me happy. John works full time now, as a movie producer and director, making his own movies. We now have enough money for me to stay home for good. I've since given up acting. The field is too competitive, and for a woman in her thirties, it's not easy to find good roles. As the kids leave the house and go to school, I become depressed once again. Darkness begins to fill my dreams. Last night I dreamt of a cage, plunged deep in the ocean, the bars were closing in around me, I was drowning. Trapped and drowning. I woke up and thought about it for a while. Dreams are not literal, so it's hard to tell. I think I'm scared, to tell you the truth, scared that my freedom is slipping away from me. And I think I've known for a while, I'm just too weak to admit it to myself. Motherhood is glorious, but if someone tells you that it's not scary, they're a damn fool.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"John," I whisper to my husband, unable to contain myself any longer.

I poke him in the side, it's the middle of the night but I just can't wait. "John!" I say again as he begins to roll over.

"Shh!" he says, "You'll wake the kids."

"What is it?" he adds.

"I have something I want to run by you, and it just can't wait until the morning," I say, heart racing.

He looks at me expectantly, and slightly annoyed that I woke him up, but I don't care. "I want to go back to school," I say, "I want to go to a proper university."

In my struggle to settle down and find a way to support myself, I never really had the opportunity to go back to school. Especially with Maggie and Artie. "Maggie's fourteen, she can help me watch Artie, who is hardly a kid anymore anyhow."

I look at him and he says, "What do you want to go back to school for?"

"I want an education. I never had it at that level, and I've always wished I did. I need this, John. I need to do this. For me this time. Not for the kids, or for you, for me," I say, "I've been depressed for far too long, and it's time to put my mind to good use."

"Where would you go?" he asks, "It's not exactly common practice to do something like this."

"A college, somewhere around here. I'll take a few classes a semester or something. Just something! Something to get me out of this goddamn house!" I say, by the end of my sentence, yelling.

"Shh!" he says, quieting me again.

"If it makes you feel better," he starts, "Start looking at some schools."

"Really?" I ask, overjoyed.

"Really," he repeats, "If it makes you happy, it makes me happy."

For the rest of the night, I laid awake, unable to contain myself. The next day I was unpleasantly surprised at the schools I was looking into. Nearly every single one I called told me I was not suitable for their school. Not only did they reject me for being a woman, but they insinuated that I was too old. I'm 45 years old, not 100. A persons' worth does not diminish when they start to age. I look down at my list, with one name left, Scripps College. A college for women. I had passed by it once on a trip up to Wisconsin with the family. I smile. That's the day we went fishing on Lake Wassota.

I flip open the phone book and scribble down their address, fold up the list, and put it in my pocket. They can't hardly reject me in person. I took the bus there, as John takes the car to work. We had two cars once, but it was too much to afford after having Maggie and Artie. Mildred's husband bought her one for her birthday, so sometimes she picks me up and takes me to lunch. She's a horrible driver, but then again so is the man who drives the bus.

After an hour bus ride, I arrive at the front of the school. I sigh and brush off my coat and dress, picking up my purse and striding into the school's admissions office. "Can I help you?" the secretary asks.

"Yes," I say, "I was wondering if you're still accepting new students for this coming semester."

"Yes," the woman says, "But your daughter needs to be present to schedule an interview."

"My daughter?" I say, taken aback, "I'm trying to register myself! Not my daughter!"

"Oh," she says, embarrassed, not knowing what to do, "You can take a seat over there in the waiting area. I'll have to talk to somebody about this."

"What do you mean?" I ask, "Can you get me a meeting or not?"

"I'm not sure," the woman says, "I'm not sure what the protocol is for a woman of your...age."

"Excuse me?" I say, extremely annoyed, "Why couldn't a woman of my _age _attend your school?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I don't make the rules," she says, "I'm just not sure I can register you."

"Who would I be interviewing with?" I ask, taking a step towards the hall, "They should be able to tell me."

"You can't see the president without an appointment!" she says.

"Watch me!" I say, striding down the hall as she scurries behind me. I throw open the fanciest door at the end of the hall.

A man sits at his desk, a number of years older than me, and peers up at me from over his spectacles. "Mary?" he says, "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, sir," she says, "I tried to stop her."

"Who might you be?" he says in my direction.

"Rose Calvert," I say, "I wish to attend your school."

"Attend the school?" he says, surprised.

I nod and he says, "Mary, leave us."

Mary turns and leaves, shutting the door behind her. "Sit down," he says.

I take a seat in the large oak chair before his desk. "I admire your courage," he says, "But why, at your age, would you want to go to school?"

"I want the same as every woman here, a good education," I say, stopping to reach into my coat pocket, "Here is a list of all the colleges that rejected me purely because of my age. And is that right?"

He glances down at the list and says, "No," he pauses, "Perhaps not."

"All I want is to go to a school that will not judge me. I want to better myself," I say, "And I won't rest until someone accepts me."

"Sounds like you don't have many other options," he says, "You've already crossed out nearly every school in the area."

"I know," I say, "And I told them all the same things I'm telling you."

I add, "All I want is for someone to give me a chance."

He pauses and looks at me for a long while. "Are you capable of keeping up with the work?" he asks.

"Certainly," I say, "I went to private secondary school in London after attending a private institution in Philadelphia as a child."

He nods and says, "And your husband supports you?" he pauses and says, "You do have a husband, right?"

"Yes," I say, "My husband supports me whole-heartedly."

He sighs and studies me again. "Mrs. Calvert, I know it has been a trying time for you. But I'm just not quite sure you'll handle it."

"Please, sir," I say, "Nobody will every try as hard as I do if you just give me one chance!"

He sighs again, "If you must insist," he starts, "I could start you off in a few classes on a trial basis. If you do well, I'll admit you to the school full-time."

"But don't think that just because you're the same age as the professor that there'll be any special treatment," he adds, "Because I will be discussing it with them before they take you on."

"I won't disappoint you," I say, beaming.

"Don't get too excited," he says, "Save it for the classroom."

He adds, "See Mary on your way out. Make sure she registers you."

"I will," I say, adding, "Thank you."

He nods and I exit the room. Finally, I have a new destination, a new course. In the years since Maggie and Arthur arrived, I have never felt so powerful. I'm starting to discover myself again, starting to live my life for me. And it feels amazing.


	9. Chapter 9

"You're too young," I say to Maggie, "Girls your age should not be getting married."

"But I love him!" she pleads.

"I know you do, sweetheart, and at your age, I did too," I say, "That doesn't change the fact that you're way too young. You're seventeen years old, there's going to be plenty of other guys that come along."

"I don't want any of the other guys," she says flatly, "Besides, all the men are nearly gone."

I suppose she's right, a large portion of the men in our area have left, enlisted or drafted into the war. Including my own husband. "Why don't you wait for him to come back?" I say.

"What if he doesn't come back?" she asks, crying.

"He'll come back," I say, "Someday."

I often hoped and wondered if some random day John would walk through the door and come home. After three years of waiting, I wonder if I'll ever see him again. Part of me wants Maggie to have a chance at love, despite her naivety. Part of me also doesn't want to receive a telegram, maybe two, that breaks her heart. "Look," I say, "Consider it, think about waiting. For my sake at least consider it."

"My mind's made up, I want to be married," she says.

I roll my eyes. She can be almost as stubborn as me sometimes. She has been dating this boy, Johnny Howard, for two years now. Maybe she does know more about her feelings than I do.

A year later, April of 1944, John came home, albeit injured, but still he was home. He was shot in the leg but they were able to sew it up with little damage. He walks with a little limp now, but that's quite alright. Perfection is overrated anyhow.

In May, I graduated from Scripps College with a degree in Psychology and a minor in Art History. Not to mention I graduated in high honors. After my degree was finished, I was asked to teach part-time at the school in the fall and I gladly accepted. I knew it was because of the shortage of men with higher degrees, due to the war, but it was an offer nonetheless.

The same month, Maggie graduated and started looking for colleges. She chose the University of California, at Los Angeles, of course. She always loved going to the beach, it was a natural fit. Though she still mentioned Johnny sometimes, and often waited for his letters, she seemed to think of him less and less. The prospect of a new college was too big, overwhelming even, than a suburban life with a normal working class husband. I want to see her do better for herself. I hate to say it, but it's true.

The only one I have left at home after the summer is Artie. In June, Artie accepted a position at a restaurant where he washed dishes and was gone nearly every afternoon. It felt strange to be left alone with John again, almost wrong. John took me on day trips, and we went down to Santa Monica a few times, reliving our old glory. The pier changed every time we saw it, but we made a point to go back to it once every summer.

In September, I started teaching. Jack would've been so proud of me. I taught Art History 103 like a real professional, even sharing some of my own work. I only wish I would have been able to show them Jack's work. He would have made a wonderful guest lecturer. But the pages are lost, at the bottom of the ocean, probably swallowed up by fish, or already rotted away. They will never be seen again.

As a psychology lover by nature, I often tried to couple it with my lessons in art. On my first day, I even started right off the bat with it.

"Can anyone tell me who Sigmund Freud is?"

I call on a dark haired girl in the back of the room.

"He is a psychologist," she says confidently.

"And a neurologist too," I say, "As well as scholar who tried once to apply his psychological theories to art. Namely Leonardo da Vinci."

"Can anyone tell me who da Vinci is?"

"He was a painter, an artist," a tall, slender, girl named Penny says.

"Excellent," I say, "And do you know why Freud was so interested in da Vinci?"

A long pause ensued and I continued, "Freud wanted to interrogate da Vinci's psyche, through his work. He inferred that da Vinci could have been a homosexual," I say.

"How do we know that?" another girl asks, "He's been dead for so long. Surely we have no evidence."

"You may be right," I say, "And Freud received some criticism for it, being that the sexual mores are different in our time than da Vinci's."

"I thought this class was supposed to be about art history," another short, light-haired girl asks.

"It is," I say, "But it's important to note how the mind behind the paint brush worked. How these great artists really felt. Art is all about interpretation. If you can use psychology to help you understand someone, or their art, there is no greater tool."

As I say this, I feel sad. I never really stopped to figure out how Jack felt, and what messages his drawings contained. He often drew what was around him, which provided a wonderful commentary of life as a man with little means, but something else about his work was even more telling.

Though I'm not an expert, I know Jack had an obsession with drawing hands for a reason. I have a few ideas about that. I scribbled on a piece of note paper after class, _Thoughts on Drawing Hands JD_. I wrote this beautiful ideas on how people's hands were strong, the fighting power of the third class, that hands could've been the easiest for him to draw, and countless others that never really did it. But in the middle of the night, a week later, I jotted something new down. _He draws hands because he's always wanted one to hold, one that wouldn't leave him._

I begin to cry in the kitchen, wondering why life is so unfair, why he was taken from me. I slumped down to the floor, sobbing, but trying to do so quietly, as not to wake John or Artie. They didn't need to see a 50 year old woman sobbing to herself about lost love of decades long passed. I collect myself and go to my jewelry box in the closet. I take out the Heart of the Ocean necklace, clutch it in my hand tight, and climb back into bed with John. Sometimes, you have those days where you just can't move on, no matter how long it's been.


	10. Chapter 10

On September 30th, 1950 Maggie got married to her college sweetheart Roger Murray. I am thrilled to have him in the family, we would never have met him if she had gotten married to Johnny. Though it seems Maggie's found love, Johnny couldn't move on for a while. By the end of 1945 Johnny was home and looking for Maggie. She asked me not to give him her new address, but he found her anyway. He was distraught and obsessed with her. I can't lie, I would be too if I were away from men for a few years. She's the only thing he had to remember, look forward to.

Johnny stalked her for a month before he took his own life, driven mad by war and the loss of Maggie. Though she didn't say it, I know she was devastated. He was her first love. After Johnny passed, Roger was there to pick up the pieces, and even proposed to her at her graduation party. Only after asking her father's permission of course. They were together five years before they married. Maggie looked beautiful in her dress, though it was much poofier and fancier than I thought it should be. It reminded me of all the awful dresses my mother stuffed me in. Having a big wedding was very important to her, but she didn't really seem to care about the cost. I picked up a second job as a secretary just to keep up with the bills. I'm glad it's over, we can go back to normal soon.

Normal, however, is entirely subjective. My life has never been normal and in fact, my life has been anything but the usual. When reading the newspaper, as I always do, I saw that my mother had died. _RMS Titanic Disaster Survivor dies at 93, _I read. She would have been 94 this December.

_Ruth Dewitt Bukater died of Alzheimer's disease this Monday, November 26, 1950, in her home in Culver City. Ruth was born in Pennsylvania to parents Rosalie and Benedict Dewitt. She was born to a prominent family, the Dewitts, who owned a goldmine in California. In the mid 1880s they sold the mine and retired. She inherited a small fortune after they passed. She married Franklin Bukater in 1884, who died from a heart attack in 1907. In 1912, she crossed the Atlantic on the RMS Titanic with her daughter, Rose Dewitt-Bukater, whom tragically perished in the sinking. After reaching New York aboard the Carpathia, she became a seamstress, most notably working for Lady Lucille Duff Gordon. In 1927 she went to California in search of work. According to medical records she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease in 1945. She is survived by no husband or children, but a dog, Coco. She often spoke of her late daughter and husband, and remembered them fondly. May she rest in peace._

So my mother never remarried, as I had hoped. Though she wronged me on the night of the sinking, I only ever wanted the best for her. I never intended for her to die alone, scared, and confused. She was so close, even living in the same state. I could have gone to visit her if I wanted to, but I assume she passed away long ago. If I had gone to visit, she would not have known anyway. It seems strange to feel detached from your mother's death, but that's how I feel. Rose Dewitt-Bukater died long ago, and in my eyes, so did she.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" John says, sitting up in bed, sensing that something's not right.

"Nothing," I say, lifting a book in front of my face.

"I know that face," he says, "Tell me."

"Nothing happened!" I snap, causing him to recoil.

"I'm sorry," I add, "I just need a break, a vacation."

"Alright," he says, "Now that the wedding's over we can save up, maybe go somewhere this spring."

I nod and turn back to my book, inside which sits a clipping of my mother's obituary.

The next day I boarded the city bus, headed for Culver City. Dressed in my best black dress and pillbox hat, I set through the suburbs on foot in search of the funeral home. As I gazed up at the building I could hardly believe it. It was utterly ordinary, no glitz, no glamour, no opulence. No matter how many times I read that my mother was a seamstress, it has never really sunk in. I pressed through the glass door and proceeded into the room.

Three people sat in folding chairs before her. I made my way to the front of the room and knelt before my mother's open casket. It's strange how people age, her once bright red hair is white, yet still tightly wound in her usual Victorian up-do. Her face was marked with age, but I shouldn't judge, for mine is beginning to be as well. There's no stopping it. "It's been 38 years, Mother," I whisper, "I hope you had a good life."

I pause and add, "I'm sorry for not telling you. I really am. But it had to be this way."

I sigh and add, "It really had to."

I turned to the woman behind me and shook her hand. "Helen Childs," she says, "I was Ruth's nurse."

"How did you know her?"

"Oh," I say, taken off guard, "I knew her before she came to New York, I suppose."

"Before things changed," I add.

"Sad, isn't it?" she says, "That she has no-one left."

"Her husband left her behind long ago," she says, "And did you know her daughter passed on Titanic?"

"The woman had a hard life," she says, "In the end."

"She struggled a lot. But it always went back to Rose. She always wanted to talk to Rose," she says, "She even did a few times."

"What did she say?" I ask, trying to seem like I'm making polite conversation, but with my heart breaking.

"She said she was sorry, always sorry. And that it was her fault," Helen says, remorseful, "She thinks she's the reason her daughter died. I must have told her a thousand times that it wasn't, but she wouldn't accept it."

I take a deep breath and say, "It wasn't her fault, I knew Rose," I pause and add, "And she loved her mother until the end."

"You were a friend of Rose?" she asks.

I nod, no longer properly able to form words. "What did you say your name was?" she asks.

"I didn't," I say, turning to take a seat in the back corner of the room, wanting to be alone.

I sat through the service without shedding a tear, but on the bus ride home I broke down. Even through Alzheimer's she knew me, she loved me. But all I cared about was getting away from her. How could I have been so heartless? I was blinded by the loss of Jack and abuse of Cal that I never stopped to think that things could change. She did change. She became what she hated, the third class. But through my coldness, I took on the attitude of the wretched first class, being too proud to face what you fear. In the end, I can't change how things happened, and I will have to live with that forever. I just hope that somehow, some way, that she could forgive me. I certainly now have forgiven her.


	11. Chapter 11

"Africa?" I say, stunned, as John brandishes the plane tickets in front of me.

"I know you've always wanted to go there," he says, adding, "Happy birthday, sweetheart."

It's been five years since John promised me a vacation. Though since that time, we've hit a few unexpected financial road-blocks that always seem to come along. In 1951 the refrigerator broke, the next year our house needed re-painting, and in 1954 we absolutely _needed_ a television set, or so John said. We forsook our big international vacation for the sake of the family, often taking day trips as far as the Grand Canyon even. It's been one of my favorite places to date. It seemed to go on forever, it's truly a wonder. This world is so spectacular, and I want to see every inch of it. Even at 60.

John hands me the ticket for me to study. "It seems we arrive on June 10th...and stay through the 30th," I say, looking up, "We'll be there for our anniversary!"

"34 years," he says, "It still feels like yesterday."

"I know," I say, "I wish. Except I have a few more wrinkles and a couple of kids to show for it."

"But do you think Artie will be alright while we're gone?" I add.

"He's 27. A real man now, Rosie," John says, "We were both younger than him when we met."

"Don't remind me," I say, groaning, "Sooner or later he'll be married. It's bad enough he's alone in that apartment in the city."

"Maybe a wife would do him some good," I add, "Then _she_ could do his laundry."

John laughs as I take the tickets and tuck them into the drawer for safe keeping. In a few short months we'll be in Africa. I can't believe it.

On June 10th we landed Johannesburg, South Africa. It took us three days to get here, having to stop six times between Los Angeles and here. As I gaze out of the small porthole-like window of the plane I smile. It's all worth it. The African landscape is like nothing else I've ever seen.

After settling into our hotel that afternoon John brings me out for dinner. "Do you even know where you're going?" I ask, teasing him as we stop on the side of the road.

He fusses with his map, looking around at the street signs. "The travel agency said it was two blocks from our hotel."

"What's it called?" I ask, looking at the map.

"La Maisonette," he mispronounces.

"French food?" I say, recoiling, "We're in South Africa!"

"It's supposed to be nice," John says, "And it comes highly recommended."

"To hell with the recommendation!" I say grabbing the map out of his hand, "Don't you want to experience it all? If I wanted French food I'd drag you ten minutes into Los Angeles for it."

"Let's go there!" I say, pointing down the road to a small hole in the wall authentic South African restaurant.

"But I don't speak the language!" John protests.

"You can't speak french either!" I quip, teasing him about his awful pronunciation.

"Now that's the girl I married," he says, pulling me close, "Alright, Rose, we'll go there. Maybe you'll see me butcher Zulu too."

"You'll hardly get the chance," I say, breaking across the road, "Most people her speak english anyway!"

As we entered the restaurant many people stared at us, the gaudy Americans. But after several minutes they warmed up to us. One man, out waiter Dingane, even offered to take us on a tour. He promised to take us to see the elephants, maybe even more. John has always been afraid of large animals, but for my sake he agreed.

The next day we met Dingane at the restaurant and take a bus outside the city. "Are we going on a safari?" John asks.

"Yes," Dingane says, "But not the kind they give all the tourists."

"A real African safari," he adds, beaming.

Within the next few minutes we reach the safari reservation. "I work here during the week," Dingane says, "And on the weekend I work at the restaurant.

He leads us downs a path to some safari caravans. "Are you sure this is safe?" John asks, worried.

"Oh yes," Dingane, "The elephants are gentle creatures. Our friends."

A few moments later we set off on our private tour through the reservation. The plains seem to go on for miles and miles, similar to the Grand Canyon, but different. There's so much room to run, dance, just be free. As the wind hits the side of my face, I am taken back to a place where I was also free,_ flying_ even. I close my eyes and I can almost feel him here. But John's gentle touch of my shoulder brings me back to reality.

"I see them," Dingane says, "Just up ahead."

I crank my neck to get a good view of them, but I don't have to work very hard. Within a minute or two the caravan screeches to a halt. "Good thing we bought that new camera, huh?" John says, peering through the lens, snapping a picture.

"There's so beautiful," I say, leaning out of the side of the van.

I spot a small elephant, probably a baby born not too long ago staring at me. A few moments later he begins to start for the caravan. I lean back into the van as the elephant approaches the side. "Don't be frightened," Dingane says, as the elephant sticks its trunk inside

I've never realized how big elephants really are, even the babies. He waves his trunk around inside the car before patting me on the shoulder. "Oh," I say, relieved.

Dingane laughs and says, "All of these elephants were rescued from the poachers in the wild, transferred here, to the reservation. I've known Senzo since his birth."

"So they're..._safe?" _I ask.

"Oh yes," Dingane says, "As safe as you or I. Especially with me here."

A few minutes later we decide to come out of the caravan to take some photos before we continue on. "Smile!" John says before he snaps a picture of Senzo the elephant and I.

"It seems as though you've made a friend," Dingane says, laughing.

I laugh and say, "I never thought I'd become friends with an elephant," I pause, "Right Senzo?"

It's funny, you never think of certain animals as particularly smart or special until you interact with them. There's something in their eyes. They seem to know, to feel, just like we do.

The next day we went on a different safari to see the other wildlife in the area. On our anniversary night Dingane and his coworkers cooked us a special dinner. Everyone in the restaurant celebrated with us. They sung traditional songs and we danced into the morning. This wasn't something we were prepared for. In America an anniversary is special, but it usually doesn't give other people a cause to celebrate. That's just another thing that sets this place apart from the rest. They're special.

After a week of exploring Johannesburg it was time to board our flight to Cape Town. It was sad saying goodbye to Dingane. On our last day in Johannesburg he even took us back to the elephants to say goodbye. We agreed that we'd keep in touch. I promised him I'd send him some copies of the photographs we had taken.

Cape Town is so different than Johannesburg, being that Cape Town is on the coast. There's more people that speak english here. It almost reminds me a bit of California, of home, but with something extra special thrown into it.

After flying home from Cape Town we were exhausted. We even stopped in London for a day to catch our breath. We didn't get home until July. I hoped Maggie and Arthur wouldn't worry.

Maggie and Arthur welcomed us home with a reason to celebrate of their own. "Welcome home, mom," Roger says, kissing me on the cheek.

"All this for us?" I say.

"Yes," Maggie starts, and eventually adds, "And no."

"We have something we wanted to share with you," Maggie adds, beaming.

"I'm pregnant!"

"No!" I say, running to hug her, "Are you really?"

"Yes!" she says.

Finally, after many years of trying Maggie is able to have a child of her own. In the prior months she had been talking more and more about adoption. I am thrilled for her. Soon enough I'll have my first grandchild.


End file.
